Georgia
by tangomacabre
Summary: Rachel Dare has never fit into the Southern lifestyle, nor does she care to. When an addition to her family's estate causes massive problems, she finds herself looking for a way to escape. Unfortunately, escape is not easy for the daughter of one of the most well-known plantation owners in the South. AU, Rachel/Nico.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** It's been a _very _long time since I've put anything on here, but I've had this idea in my mind for awhile, so why not? I can't promise speedy updates (if anyone cares to know), but I've got most of the plot worked out. I'm no history buff, so there may be inaccuracies. If you see any you'd like to point out- please, go right ahead. There is also a possibility that this story might wander into the rated 'M' section later on, so keep that in mind.

Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Percy Jackson and the Olympians._

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**Georgia**

The year is 1842, and the air smells like hot peaches and tobacco smoke.

The Georgia sun bakes her skin like a roasting hog. She's informed her parents that the South is no place for a fair-skinned redhead (which includes her father as well as her), but they don't seem to care. Her father is a man of substance, as he likes to say. His reach extends throughout the state, and he has influence in every single slaughterhouse and peach farm south of the Mason-Dixon Line. That's why he's so "substantial", but he's also known to be a substantially pigheaded idiot.

That's just how Rachel likes referring to him.

Rachel Elizabeth Dare, the heiress to the Dare legacy, could really care less about anything her family has accomplished in the past hundred years. All the luxurious living and the hundreds of acres of land mean absolutely nothing to her. There's a million other things she'd rather be doing than getting gussied up in tight corsets and frivolous dresses and having to act a damn fool all the time. All of the people she's forced to associate with must be the epitome of perfection and are hand-picked by her parents. Her parents demand only the best of her, and even though she resents it to high heaven, she delivers.

That's why on the Lord's Day, she's shooting daggers at her mother across the church. May Dare enjoys being the precise image of a Southern Bell. She dons her Sunday best and a bonnet Rachel finds downright ridiculous. Rachel had once attempted to count the amount of frilly things her mother kept around the house. She'd gotten to sixty before her father asked her what she was doing and she'd had to stop and go sit on the front porch like a good, obedient daughter.

Rachel had been politely forced into a pew with William Solace, a bright young man with dirty blond hair and unnaturally blue eyes who'd been damn near the center of attention... for her mother. Being eighteen_ already,_ Mrs. Dare, on several occasions, had nudged her in Will's direction with a few "What a nice young gentleman!"-s and "My goodness, already in college?"-s. Rachel, in the face of prospective marriage had decided, quite rashly, that any man her mother approved of was immediately and permanently _out of the question_.

"Miss Dare, would you mind passing me that Bible?"

Rachel blinks, suddenly aware that Will is speaking to her. "Oh," she says dumbly and reaches over to recover the unused book. "Sorry."

"Thank you, miss." Will smiles as she hands him the book. "You didn't seem to be using it."

He says this politely, but she picks up on the note of disapproval in his voice. As if his subconscious is saying, 'I'll whip this woman into shape.' which immediately reminds her why she doesn't like Will. And why she never will. It's normal for women to be subjective to their husbands, and any other men, for that matter. But Rachel detests the idea of waiting on a man hand and foot, even if he is her husband. She's always wanted to be an independent woman, but there's always been a little voice in the back of her mind telling her to realize that it will _never _happen.

She glances lazily at the preacher, who is standing directly in a ray of sunshine so it almost looks as if God Himself is shining down upon him. It adds to the effect.

"...and the Lord said unto His children..."

It takes all of her willpower to stay awake for the rest of the sermon, but she manages with a grudging smile to Will as he helps her off of the uncomfortable pew and into the bright sunlight. As the congregation files out, she notices a few of her better acquaintances, just a stone's throw away. If only Will would stop suffocating her for five seconds, she'd be able to escape.

_Escape to what?_ Her mind nags, reminding her that all ten or so of her _real _friends are either slaves or in another county altogether.

"You didn't seem to be interested in the sermon." Will notices, _ever _so helpfully once they're outside, walking down the dirt path that leads to the church. Rachel doesn't exactly want Will to be near her let alone walk her home, which is what he is currently insisting on doing.

"I suppose not." she keeps her answers short to save the infuriating conversation.

Will nods but she knows he doesn't understand. "I find the Lord's work enthralling. I'm sure you do as well; we just happen to have an elderly preacher."

She cringes for a split second. What about her tone of voice does he not understand? How much of an idiot must he be to not notice just how completely uninterested she is in every single syllable that has had the gall to make its way out of his mouth? She doesn't justify his words with another response, simply nodding.

Unfortunately shutting her mouth is not enough for him to shut his. After at least five minutes of his infernal rambling, she picks up on something he says. "Perhaps your father would allow me the pleasure of escorting you to the gala at the Beauregard's?"

Her father.

Of course the pigheaded idiot wouldn't have a problem with this oh-so perfect specimen of a young gentleman dancing with his daughter. Never mind how desperately Rachel wants to get away from this man. A voice in her head is screaming at her to start making her own damn decisions about her own damn life. If she's the town failure then so be it. If her parents disown her, then she'd welcome the change with open arms. She'd much rather be galavanting around the country with a band of rogues than spend another damned moment in the good 'ol South.

"You'll have to speak to him." this is her standard response when people ask her about her father. This time, she allows all emotion to be absent from her voice, some false hope that he'll understand that she doesn't want to be near him.

They walk in a lovely silence. Without Will following her like a puppy, the day might actually take a turn for the better. But he continues to insist on walking all of two inches away from her.

"Does your maid still make her famous peach cobbler?"

Again, it takes all of Rachel's strength not to give Will a slap he won't soon forget. It's the Southern way to refer to maids and field hands like they're some kind of lowly worm. Rachel absolutely detests it, and when Will mentions her _friend_ in this manner...

"Abilene's hands don't work the way they used to." she remarks, and it's true. Her poor friend, who toiled in the Dare estate all her life, now sits in the kitchen, washing clothes and dishes all day. It's no way to live, and she'd told her father so on several occasions. Unfortunately, the pigheaded idiot doesn't think the way she does, and neither does Will.

"You should sell her off. Probably get more done around the house."

She clenches her fists and her jaw, half-heartedly praying that when she punches him (because she knows she will), no one will be around to see it.

"You know, we had a good slave once. A mighty fine one." he begins, his tone that of a pompous idiot. He continues on some idiotic story about how many sacks of feed this poor soul could heft, and how far he could run and she's pretty much ready to slap him. "...he ran off, though; about two summers ago, I'd presume."

"Good." she grumbles under her breath.

Thankfully, Will doesn't hear her, and he continues to talk about his multitude of slaves and farmhands the entire way back to the Dare estate. It's an awful walk back, and every few seconds, Rachel has to remind herself that no- she's not allowed to wring his scrawny little chicken neck, and yes- killing is illegal in the oppressively hot state of Georgia.

"...that one got quite a number of lashes-" he cuts off for a wonderful second. "Ah, here we are. I'll have a word with your father."

He opens the door for her, which she should find to be a wonderfully chivalrous gesture, but since it's Will, it is most certainly _not_.

The Dares have a lovely house. The tall, white ceilings tower over a foyer fit for a king. The Persian carpets are actually from Persia, and the paintings of Rachel's ancestors span every room and hallway. The chairs and couches are so elegant, the Queen of England might be ashamed to sit in them. Their unfortunate housekeepers and butlers keep the mansion spotless, right down to the fifteenth century Swedish vase on the giant bureau in her parent's room. All of her mother's frilly things can be found at least every two feet, and she's not exactly sure how her father had accumulated so many animal heads, seeing as he'd never hunted once in his life, but they are on display all around. Anyone would be jealous to live on the estate.

Rachel absolutely hates it.

Her parents speak about their estate and all of their belongings like it's the most uninteresting subject they've ever discussed. They ride in their overly expensive buggies with their overly expensive clothes, chins high enough to break their million-dollar necks. Maybe it's the fact that she just resents every little action her parents involve themselves in. Maybe they're actually just awful people. She likes to think the latter.

Will walks off, presumably toward her father's study, where he'll essentially make an offer on her independence. As much as the prospect of having to attend the Beauregard's gala with Will sickens her, his absence is probably the best thing that's happened all day. She lets out a sigh when he's gone and closes her eyes, trying to shove any residual anger back into the recesses of her mind.

"Miss Dare?" a frail voice calls.

Rachel opens her eyes, and there's Abilene, leaning against the archway to the kitchen. She smiles at the old woman, "Hello Abilene, how-" she stops, noticing that under her apron, it looks like the maid is clutching her left wrist. "Is something wrong?"

She manages the most pained smile Rachel's ever seen on a person. Her stomach churns. "I'm alright, Miss Dare, I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. What are you hiding under that apron?" she adds a little of her father into her voice. She almost cringes at how easy it is to imitate him.

Abilene shakes her head as if there's nothing to worry about. "Nothin' Miss Dare, nothin'. I'll be fixin' ta cook up supper soon." she makes the mistake of pulling her hand free to make some gesture. Her eyes widen and she quickly stuffs it back under her apron.

Rachel's already seen, though, rushing to her side. "Abilene, what _happened_?" Rachel cries and carefully pulls her hand out. The old woman winces, the deep lines in her face becoming more pronounced.

"Weren't nothin' you be concernin' yerself with, Miss Dare."

"Well, I'll be concerning myself with it now!" Rachel yelps, frantic. "What happened?"

Abilene looks like a cornered rat, her gaze flitting to the stairs- that lead to her father's study.

Her father.

It's never been more obvious how much of a damned idiot her father is than now. The gaping wound on her poor old friend's palm is a fine testament to that fact.

Anger and hate well up in her throat. "I'll be right back." she growls, glaring up at the stairs.

"Please Miss Dare, please don't!" her voice is a frantic whisper. "He be fixin' to do it again if you be gettin' mad with him!"

Rachel grinds her teeth. There's a knife on the counter that glints dangerously. Unfortunately, though, Abilene is right. However much she'd like to show her father just what she thinks of him, not risking her friend's safety is a more important matter.

Her murderous gaze softens. Anger will have to take a backseat for now. "Come on Abilene," Rachel sighs, grabbing the old woman's good hand. "let's get you patched up."

Rachel leads Abilene to the washroom, still not over what her father has done. Abilene protests and tries to pull her hand away, but eventually she gives in because she knows that Rachel Dare's resolve is the only good thing she's inherited from her father.

She cleans out Abilene's wound carefully, feeling increasingly pained for the old woman as she winces. Rachel's no doctor, but she knows how to patch a wound up. Years ago, she was quite accident-prone, and all the maids would scold her before fixing her up. Abilene was never one to cure her, but her food would fix any ailment that bandages couldn't. The maids and farmhands were Rachel's real parents- her family. They took better care of her than her biological parents, and she'd always loved it that way.

"You been better ta' me than mah own boy." Abilene murmurs as Rachel wraps her hand up, tying the cloth in a firm knot.

The comment catches her off-guard. She blinks, glancing sharply at Abilene. "Your boy?"

Abilene's smile is sad, and maybe a little hopeful. "Mah boy..." she trails off, suddenly lost in her memories.

Rachel had never once heard of Abilene's son. The old maid had been with the family since as long as Rachel could remember. The thought had never even crossed her mind that she'd had a life- a son, even, before the Dare estate. She immediately felt like a fool for never giving her old friend's life any forethought. What kind of a friend did that?

"How old was he?"

Abilene seemed to understand the unasked portion of the question: "...when you were sold." "Four." she says. "Came here three weeks later."

There's a pang in Rachel's heart. This poor old woman, who'd spent almost all of her life working- no, _slaving_ for her asinine family, had a son of her own, who could have been anywhere, doing anything. Southern hospitality be damned, there was something wrong with the picture as a whole.

"Do you have any idea where he could be?" Rachel inquires, feeling increasingly worse for Abilene.

She shakes her head slowly, adjusting her bandage. There's always been a certain sadness that Rachel had always associated with the woman, and she'd readily assumed it was because of her enslavement. All of the other slaves had a kind of sorrow all their own. But Abilene's was different, deeper-rooted, almost. She couldn't believe in all the years she'd known the old housemaid, she'd never known just why her sad eyes drooped the way they did, why her gait always seemed slanted, like the weight of the world pressed down on her shoulders.

Rachel ached to help. Anger and resentment boiled up in the pit of her stomach, threatening to pour out in the form of harsh words and curses at her father and all the other "gentlemen" she'd encountered. What good would it do, though? She couldn't get through to the pigheaded idiots if she tried.

Suddenly Abilene's eyes widen, and, shoving Rachel out of the washroom, she picks up the scrub brush from the wall and begins worrying herself with the wash tub.

Rachel understands immediately why as she hears the footsteps from the kitchen. Abilene's other senses have been dulled from years of work, but miraculously, her hearing is keen as ever. She smiles again at the maid once more before throwing her lady-like facade on and sauntering into the kitchen.

"Ah, Miss Dare!"

Her nails dig into the palms of her hands, under the countertop where Will can't see. "Hello again, Mr. Solace."

"I've just had a word with your father. I'll be seeing you at the gala!" Will smiles the kind of smile that makes not smacking him across the face very difficult. "I'll send for you, miss, don't worry about a thing."

"Why thank you Mr. Solace." she intones, not even attempting to weasel any false emotion into her voice. "I will see you then."

Will nods happily, completely unaware of her complete apathy. Either that, or he's choosing to ignore it. "Church was informative today, if I do say so myself."

_You do._ She muses, but keeps her mouth shut- a feat that's becoming increasingly difficult.

"If I recollect correctly, I do believe I have some prior business to attend to." Will tips his hat to her. "So I will be making your acquaintance at another time."

Rachel just nods, hoping he'll leave sooner rather than later. But he's already reached out for her hand, pulling it to his mouth to kiss. She resists the urge to vomit when he smiles against the back of her hand and glances up at her like some kind of sap. There cannot be enough soap and water in the entire world for her hand. She might have to entertain the option of cutting it off. She gulps down the bile and flashes the worst excuse for a smile as she can muster, and _finally,_ he lets go of her hand. "Have a nice day, Miss Dare."

He leaves finally, whistling like an imbecile all the way.

Rachel sighs in relief, slumping against the kitchen counter. Finally she's rid of that man, although not for good. She'd have to deal with his presence at the Beauregard's gala, if not every day until then. It was April twenty-second, and the gala was the second week of June. The very thought of dealing with Will for just under two months sickens her.

"Rachel!" a voice bellows from upstairs.

It's her father, and after Will's irritable nature, speaking to _this_ pigheaded idiot is not high on her 'to-do' list. But he'd persist, so she shuffles upstairs.

The parlor door is ajar, and as she pushes it open, it creaks loudly. "Yes, daddy?" she says, trying desperately not to sound condescending.

Her father spins around in his large leather chair. "Com'mere so I can see you right."

She obeys, although every fiber of her being tells her not to.

He seems to size her up like a head of cattle. It's not an uncommon occurrence. "He's a fine young man, that Will. Knows where he's off to in life."

She sneers, feeling the anger rise up in her throat. "I suppose." she murmurs through gritted teeth.

He's not paying attention, just puffing his tobacco, staring off out the window as if his thoughts are the only things that matter in the world. "A fine man..." he trails off. Suddenly, as if shocked by lightning, he jolts up in his seat, clapping his hands. "Ah! I've hired an Italian to work the fields where that one Jim used to."

Rachel swallows the biting words she wants so desperately to use. "Yes?"

He rises from his chair, only a measly inch or two taller than his eighteen year old daughter. "I'll need you to keep watch over him. Not sure how I can trust Italians."

"Keep watch, daddy?"

Her father nods. "He'll be fixin' to arrive in an hour. Meet the caravan outside the house, and tell the leader that the Italian's ours."

Wonderful. Another poor soul to add to their collection. "Do you know what he looks like, daddy?"

"Should be the only Italian on there. War criminal or something." he takes a long drag from his tobacco pipe. "He'll be a good hauler- or, aha! I could start some guard work for the property! Now that's something new."

"Yes, daddy."

He nods to himself, completely lost in thought. She hates it when he stares off like this, as if his own thoughts are a thousand times more important than whoever he's asked into the room. Unfortunately, it's a rather effective business tactic, and she finds herself using it when trying to... get her way. It makes people uncomfortable, makes it seem like there's something mysterious and unreadable about whoever's using it. Not that she enjoys being mysterious and unreadable. Well, not _all_ the time.

"That all?" she asks pointedly.

He blinks, doing a sort of collective spasm like he's just been woken from a deep sleep. "Uh- yes, darlin', just be out waitin' for that caravan when it comes 'round. Want to make a good impression."

And show off your irritated daughter. She thinks, but doesn't speak.

She leaves him in much the same way as she found him; looking out on the fields, contemplating the fates of the hundreds of souls that he's condemned.

The caravan arrives an hour later, as promised. At least ten horse-drawn cage carts, each toting either supplies or slaves. She's seen caravans like this one, glanced over the men, caked in dirt and blood, and wished she could unlock the cages and set them free. But they'd be safer in a pit of lions than the good 'ol South.

"Miss Dare, I presume!"

There's a man with a bowler hat, leaning off the side of the front cart, his hand extended in greeting. His brown beard is neatly trimmed, mustache unfortunately not covering his mossy green smile. He hops off as the cart comes to a stop, strutting over to her like some sort of overgrown bird.

"Davis Prescott, at your service!" he tips his hat, showing off his balding head, and bows deeply. "I'm sure your father has informed you of our transaction. Ah, where might he be?"

"He's asked me to preform the sale."

"Ah, well, I'd be more comfortable with-"

"I am more than capable of buying this man from you." she interrupts, pulling the bills from her satchel.

His eyes widen at the money, and he moistens his lips eagerly, something Rachel finds absolutely revolting because his mustache gets in the way. "I think everything is in order, then- BILL! DAN! GET THE DAMN CAGE OPEN!"

She's a little startled at his sudden change of voice, and so are the two men a few carts back. They're haggard and exhausted-looking, but they scramble to get the cart cage open.

"Now about the cost..." Prescott says, his hands inching towards the cash in hand.

She pulls it away from him, trying out one of her father's more effective techniques- intimidation. "I will need a bill of sale as well as a look at the man. I will not buy a man who does not meet the exact specifications my father was given two weeks ago in Savannah. Do not try to swindle me, Mister Prescott."

"I- uh, swindle?" he motions frantically at the two haggard looking men, and they push a frail old man back into the cart. "Never would I dream of such a thing, Miss Dare!"

"Good. I believe you'd agreed on seven hundred dollars for an eighteen year old Italian. That man you were releasing did not either eighteen or Italian, Mister Prescott."

He opens and closes his mouth like a fish before clearing his throat. "I am sorry, my workers are not as mentally sound as you or I." He taps hi forehead and shows off that mossy smile again, now looking rather worried.

The two men come around the third cart, now with another man in tow.

His skin is dark- olive colored, maybe. That's the first thing she notices- she doesn't exactly see a wide spectrum of skin tones in the South. He's obviously not white, that much is clear. His disposition is slanted, as if he's been carrying all of his burdens on one shoulder. He reminds her of Abilene, in a way, but he looks strong, his biceps are defined, as well as his forearms, and there's scars all over them. His wrists are bound together with a scrap of old cloth.

One of Prescott's workers grabs his torn white shirt and pulls him forward, shoving him. The look Prescott gives the poor man is filled with hatred and distaste, and Rachel rethinks the notion she had to smack him across the face.

"Here he is Miss. Gave us a lot of trouble back in Charleston." Prescott says and slaps the poor man's back so hard Rachel can almost hear his teeth rattling.

She looks over the man. He doesn't speak, just stares her, straight in the eyes with the empty look of a haunted man. She has to repress the cold shiver that almost overcomes her. "Now, this is the man my father agreed upon." she says, breaking eye contact. The intensity of his gaze is too much. "Where is the bill of sale? I will not leave you without it."

Prescott reaches in his suit pocket. He hands a slip of yellowed paper to her. It crinkles as she opens it.

_"To be worked until death. _

_This prisoner of War has now and henceforth the title of "slave"._

_Eighteen years of age; given the name Nico di Angelo._

_Sold to The Dare Estate for seven hundred dollars."_

She looks up again at the man whose life she'll be purchasing, which is a mistake, because he's still glaring at her with that same haunted look. Only eighteen and forced to a life of servitude. There's something hidden behind his eyes, something very… _different. _She's seen all sorts of looks in the eyes of the slaves that work on her family's estate. Anything from filled with tears to completely apathetic. He's quite strange in his look, his demeanor, and it's almost intriguing.

"This all seems to be in order, Mister Prescott. Here you are," she hands him the seven hundred dollars, which he eagerly receives. "Good day."

Prescott tips his hat again and hauls all kinds of ass getting his caravan out of the estate.

Once he's gone, Rachel sighs, letting the intimidating facade fall. "Oh good lord, I despise doing that." she turns to the man - Nico - and smiles. "I'm sorry I had to do that. It looks like those idiots roughed you up quite a bit."

He doesn't speak, just stares.

"Is this what you do? Stare?"

Nothing.

"I'll take that as a yes. Either way, I'm Rachel Elizabeth Dare. I'd rather you not call me 'Miss Dare', but most of our... attendants do." She doesn't exactly like using the word 'slave'. She motions towards the fields. "Unfortunately, you'll be working out there all day. The field hands are very nice, though, and if you have questions, old Cyrus is the one to help you. He'll be out in the field house."

Again, his answer is silence.

_Well, this is turning out to be irritating_, she muses.

"I suppose I'll walk you out, then."

She undoes the knot keeping his wrists together and begins the trek out to the field house. The entire way, he remains silent, looking straight ahead with those cold hazel eyes, as if he's heading for the gallows. Maybe he had been in this position before- a slave. She pushes the thought from her mind. It's bad enough this poor man now has to work for her family; she doesn't even want to think about what he might have had to go through before.

"Here it is."

The field house is essentially an unimpressive little shack, filled to the brim with beds and tools. Her father is perfectly fine spending a hundred dollars on a new suit, but he can't be bothered to build living quarters separate from the tool shed.

"Why hello Miss Dare!"

"Cyrus! How are you today?"

The old man hobbles out of the door, holding on to his walking stick for support. The poor old man has to be at least eighty, although Rachel has never asked him (not that he would care to keep track), his hands are gnarled from years in the fields and, his dark skin is leathery and scarred. He smiles at her every time he sees her, but the smile never reaches his eyes. "Fine, fine. Who's this boy come here, nah?" he motions at Nico with his stick.

"This is Nico, he'll be working the fields with you."

"Hmm. We ain't had no Spanish here."

"He's Italian."

"Italian?" he gasps, pronouncing it 'eye-talian'. "Nah, that's different! You speak English, boy?"

"I haven't been able to get a word out of him. Maybe you will."

"Ah, he be talkin' up a storm, no time 'tall." he motions Nico into the field house. "Come on in, we gots ta get ya set up. Thank ya Miss Dare!"

"Until next time, Cyrus." she says, and watches as Nico ambles into the shack, Cyrus hobbling along behind him.

She makes her way back to the house, but even though it's a sunny day, she feels cold. Something about that boy doesn't sit right.

She tries desperately to dismiss it, but even so; she doesn't sleep that night.

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**A/N:** Thanks for the read! Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Sorry for the wait, I've been _way _too busy for my own good. Anyway, this chapter's not too long, but hopefully it's enjoyable enough. Again, please feel free to point out any historical inaccuracies (or any errors, for that matter), and I'll be glad to check them.

Also, thanks for the reviews!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Percy Jackson and the Olympians_

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She wakes up to the sound of hounds and screams.

First of all, Rachel Dare is not an _early bird. _Before seven in the morning, she is more of a rock and less of a functional human being. Unfortunately, there's some kind of massive commotion outside, and even her room's distance from the ground isn't enough to obstruct the uproar. It has to be about time for the farmhands to be waking up, seeing as along with the barking and the yelling there's the distinct sound of her family's roosters, cock-a-doodle-do-ing their heads off, as they do every morning around five o'clock.

_Five o'clock? Good lord._

Her muscles do a kind of strange convulsion as they're forced out of entropy, and she apologizes to them because their protesting is matching the curses she's formulating in her mind. Somewhere along the lines of: "_Someone's _head is getting ripped off." Not _chopped_, because that would be to goddamn simple for whatever entity has decided that _five o'clock _is an ideal time for Rachel Dare to wake up.

The early morning sunlight filters through the curtains, and she hastily shoves the linen away to reveal the estate grounds, sprawling out before her. Normally, she'd revel in its beauty, the soft light playing off of the dew on the grass close to the house, and further out into the fields; the fluffy cotton and ripe peaches. She might hate her parents and her wealth and the slaves and everything about the house, but the estate itself is really quite beautiful.

Well, it's _beautiful _when people aren't getting mauled by dogs out past the cotton fields.

She can't make out the figures involved, but the only thought she has is to run out of the house in her nightgown, screaming bloody murder.

"What are you doing?" she shrieks, barreling through the cotton plants at top speed. _"STOP!"_

The scene comes into full view; three of her father's men - fat, disgusting men with dirty black beards and cruel eyes - have released two of the watchdogs on a man, now cowering on the ground as the hounds snap at his mangled arms and bloodied torso.

"Get those damn dogs off of him!" she orders, fists clenched and mind racing. She _will _knock at least _one_ of their heads off, that she's sure of.

The man holding the empty leashes scowls deeply. He's got the kind of leathery, grimy, wart-riddled face only a mother could love. Or maybe his mother never loved him. She doesn't care, but she does try to recall this monster's name. When she comes up with nothing, she realizes that not knowing this animal might not be entirely amiss.

He jerks a thumb at the poor devil writhing around in agony, as if it's absolutely nothing to worry about, and no one should be paying any mind to the cries of misery. "This 'un went a-runnin'."

"I don't _care_." she rushes forward, feeling infuriated and even a little (a lot) murderous. She seizes his collar and yanks him down so they're nose to nose. The smell is abhorrent, but she has to say _something _to this bastard_. _"Call the dogs off." her teeth are clenched and she speaks every word carefully, as if she's actually considering letting him and his cronies off without a scratch. "_Now._"

Fortunately, her intimidation works, and he turns hesitantly to whistle at the hounds. They come bounding back to their masters, now uninterested in their target, which gives Rachel the opportunity to run to the pitiful heap of a person. Her stomach drops when she manages to get a good look at him. He's curled up in a pool of his own blood, shivering violently, and she can tell he's trying desperately to stay alive, let alone conscious. She tries to remember if she's ever seen him before on the estate, but her mind is too preoccupied with the notion that he might actually die, and there's nothing she can do about that.

"Get me some bandages!"

The men, who may or may not have soiled themselves when she almost tore one of their heads off, wisely decide that obeying her orders is the smart move. It is. If given a second chance, she would have no problem _actually _decapitating them all, and she might just do that if they ever return.

"We're getting you help." she says, not exactly sure how to comfort him. Her hands hover over his wounds, as shaky and uncertain as her voice. "Stay with me. Please."

"He won't make it."

She almost jumps out of her skin at the sound of a foreign voice. The man on the ground is still bleeding, but she manages to tear off a piece of her bedclothes to tie up his neck so she can turn around. When she does, the sight of Mr. di Angelo isn't exactly welcome. "You don't say a damned word yesterday, and _this _is how you start things off?" she growls, pressing the already drenched cloth on to the man's neck wounds. "_Very_ flattering."

The Italian kneels down next to her, which is both uncomfortable and unwelcome. He glances down at the poor soul, his face completely absent of any emotion. What kind of heartless bastard is this man? How could he possibly look down upon this dying man with not even one shred of remorse or empathy? He points to the other slave's neck. "His jugular." he states as if those two words cover everything and Rachel should just _accept _the death of this man. "He won't make it."

"I heard you the first time." Rachel grumbles. It's staring to make sense; this man has no chance, if the amount of blood on the ground and on the cloth is any testament to that fact.

"M-miss Dare?"

Rachel looks down at the him, feeling her chest well up with emotion. He smiles weakly at her before attempting to speak. "Thank ya…" he whispers, realizing his vocal cords have probably been severed along with the rest of his throat. He attempts to swallow a few times before trying to speak again. When he begins, his voice is barely audible. "Should- shouldn't a r-run."

"Don't say that." she whispers gently. She grips his hand tightly, bloodying her own in the process. "You _should _have. You _should_ have made it out."

He shakes his head weakly, forcing his eyes open as they threaten to close again.

"What's your name?" she asks, feeling increasingly awful for not even speaking to him before he'd been drowning in a pool of his own blood.

He wets his lips, mouthing the word before he can form it. "H-Hugh…"

She means to ask him something else about himself, maybe try to lighten his outlook, but he takes a shuddering breath. His eyes glaze over as he looks up at her, and his head falls to the side. His hand goes limp in hers. She bites her lip, bows her head in respect for this poor soul. A million possibilities come up in her mind. _If _he had made it out, what kind of a life would he have had? He could have gone north, escaped the bonds of slavery, maybe made a name for himself as a respectable freeman.

None of that matters now. Any dreams he might have had… any aspirations beyond the Dare estate, gone. He couldn't have been more than thirty, he'd had his whole life ahead of him.

Nico presses his palm to Hugh's forehead. He murmurs something in Italian- maybe a prayer, maybe a sendoff. Either way, the cold aura she'd been feeling with him around now seems to grow, almost consuming her. He looks down at the poor slave who'd payed the ultimate price for trying to _live_, just looks down at him like he's seen this death before. It's almost as if he's been a part of this exact same scene, in another life, with another man who'd run just like Hugh, and died as well.

"What did you say to him?"

He stands, offers her his hand. She accepts, and he pulls her up next to him. He regards the man with the same cold stare he'd given her when they first met. "Goodbye."

Before she can speak, shouts from the mansion catch her attention. It's her father, running out on to the fields as if he's _actually_ worried about her. If anything, the idiot should have been worried about the man on the ground, mauled to death by her father's own dogs.

"Rachel!" he heaves a large breath before he can yell: "What in the _Sam Hell _are ya doin' out here?"

She doesn't answer, just _glares _because her word choice in this situation would be less than ladylike. Her father begins his signature tirade: "What were you thinking?" "How could you do this?" "You're a _Dare_!" et cetera. He orders his henchmen to drag Hugh's limp body away, and they make it a point to actually _drag _the man along the ground instead of picking him up like a human being. Rachel's anger wells up in her chest and she turns to berate them, but the sudden realization that Nico has completely vanished stops her.

"Rachel!"

She blinks. She hasn't been listening, and her father knows. Unfortunately, this means another, longer verbal lashing, but she can't bring herself to care about her his words. "Yes, sir." she says every few minutes to show that she's still "listening", but in reality, she's still looking for Nico.

If the morning hadn't already been ruined with the death of an innocent man, this new member of her families' dysfunctional estate was turning out to be a regular wizard. However strange the new development, she's glad to be rid of his presence. Whatever she'd felt that had unnerved her yesterday has only grown tenfold with his appearance today. The boy could easily be a gravedigger or an undertaker with his demeanor. Still… how could he have disappeared so quickly and quietly?

"-now git back in the house!"

_Finally_, she realizes, her father's rant is over. "Yes, sir." she mutters, trying to sound as afflicted as she can. It's not difficult as Hugh's dying face creeps back into her thoughts.

She walks back to the house as her father remains on the fields, assessing the damage to his estate. She knows that in his eyes, he's lost a tool- something broken beyond repair. That's precisely why she can't stand the man. His idea of a person as a tool or an object just sickens her. Somedays he worries about morale and attitude not only among the slaves, but among his white workers because of their declining work ethic or the amount of broken tools he has to replace. Maybe, just _maybe _if he showed some compassion in running his godforsaken business then he'd get a better product out of his so-called "tools".

There's a carriage in front of the house. Rachel glances up at the sky, realizing that a few hours have passed since she was forced out of her house for a man she couldn't even save. The sun now shines bright and bold; and it doesn't fit with the mood of the day at all.

As she approaches the house, she makes out three figures on the porch. One of them is obviously her mother, judging by the stick-up-the-ass posture and the frilly… _everything. _The other two, a man and a woman, she can't quite make out, but the man seems to be gesturing animatedly at her mother.

_Oh no. _Her mother's face goes blood red when she spots her. She makes a series of apologetic movements, that, being restricted by her corset and the other deathtraps she's wearing, make her look like an overgrown bird. The other two go inside, and May Dare comes tearing across grass at the pace of a dainty snail.

"Rachel!" she huffs, yanking her dress up so she can shuffle a little faster. "What in heaven's name _happened? _You- you look disgusting!"

"_Thank_ you, mother. I was just going inside to clean up."

"Oh no you're not! Not with the Chases over." she yelps, not exactly sounding or looking intimidating with her caked-on make up and all manner of frilly things. "You'll go straight upstairs and _stay_ there until they leave!"

The mention of the Chases instantly perks Rachel up. One of the only sensible people in the South, Annabeth Chase had been her friend for as long as she could remember. Originally, the friendship had been more of a hatred from the deepest recesses of hell, but they'd both grown up. Even though she was from Richmond, Annabeth reminded her of what she'd thought all northerners to be like: intelligent, interesting, and compassionate. Along with her personality came the ever important hatred of slavery. Her father owned half of the tobacco plantations in both Virginia and Georgia, and, like the Dares, had a knack for being an ass. Annabeth hated the entire institution, and on several occasions had snuck slaves from her father's Virginia plantations to the North.

Suffice to say, she and Annabeth had a lot in common.

"Annabeth's here? I should say hello-"

"No! No you will not- _LAVINIA!_"

Rachel cringes at her mother's shriek, and from behind the chicken coop comes a girl no older than fourteen. The first thing she notices is the scars on her arms and across her collarbones. She rushes forward, curtsying frantically and staring at the ground before she responds- "Yes'm?" in the smallest voice Rachel has ever heard come from a person.

"Take Miss Dare up to her room and clean her up but do _not _let her come downstairs, understand?"

The pitiful little girl nods furiously and takes her arm. Her fingers feel cold and bony but Rachel's surprised at how strong her grip is as she tugs her up the stairs.

"Lavinia, right?" Rachel asks once they're safely inside, far from her mother's earshot. "I don't think we've spoken."

She shakes her head, bowing lower as she sidles along.

"You can speak if you'd like. I'm not like my parents."

The girl seems to ponder this. She shuts the door of the master bathroom before letting go of Rachel's arm. "I ain't real good at talkin'."

Rachel almost has to strain to hear the girl. "That's why you're so quiet?" she waves her hand dismissively. "Not many people around here are. Just talk to any Tom, Dick, and Harry that walks through Savannah."

"My Massah- he didn' want us talkin' none." Lavinia mumbles, fiddling with her tattered apron. "I use'ta talk more. Then…" she gingerly traces the scars on her arms, as if the old wounds could open up again.

Rachel places a hand on her shoulder. "You can talk whenever and wherever you like."

She might smile, but Rachel can't see her face. She ambles over to the washtub and gets it ready in silence, making sure to bow her head lower, almost as if she'd trying to disappear forever. She leaves Rachel to her bath and her thoughts, as quietly as ever.

When Lavinia returns to the washroom, she's holding a fresh dress- one of the wide bell ones Rachel has grown to despise. This one, thank god, has a substantially fewer amount of frills than the other hundred dresses her mother has picked out for her. The girl helps her into this dress, tying the corset only to _near_-suffocation as opposed to _complete _suffocation she's used to with her mother. She's always believed that the dresses make her look like she's hiding a cow or some other large animal, and on one occasion she'd been able to fit two people underneath the thing (not a story she ever enjoys telling).

She thanks the girl for her help which seems to come as a complete shock to her. Lavinia's hands pause on the bonnet before shakily restarting.

"Have you ever been thanked before?"

There's a long pause before she answers. "No, miss Dare."

Rachel doesn't say anything. Really, she shouldn't be surprised; being a slave is thankless, this she knows, but she's spent her entire life trying to make them feel like _people _and when new additions say things like this, she can't help but feel useless. Almost as useless as she'd felt this morning, not able to help _one _man.

"Miss Dare?"

Rachel looks up. Lavinia's finished with her clothes, and is standing off to the side, her hands clenched and her bottom lip quivering. "Lavinia?" Rachel rises, rushing over to her. "What's the matter?"

She wipes her eyes. "It's jist… ain't nobody ever been good ta me." she replies shakily. "You… you been so nice, miss Dare."

"Oh, Lavinia, I just…" she's at a loss. No one has ever had _this _reaction to her before. Yes, she doesn't follow Southern customs, and that makes her strange in the eyes of many, but this…

"I heard you been good ta my Pappy."

"Your Pappy?" Now she's confused. Sometimes, the slaves would call each other sister or uncle or father because they'd never known their own families, but by her tone, Lavinia seems to actually _know _her father. As far as Rachel could recollect, they'd never had any two slaves from the same family on the estate. Her idiot of a father had made sure of it. "Your _real _Pappy?"

Lavinia nods. "You ain't known him too good, but you been good ta him!"

"Cyrus?" Rachel asks, because she honestly can't think of any man who'd told her about a daughter-

"No, miss Dare," she gives her a watery smile. "my Pappy Hugh."

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **I should probably just make a blanket apology for all the slow updates in the future. Sorry...

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Percy Jackson and the Olympians._

* * *

She'd never thought a chair could rock _angrily._

Then again, she'd never been furious enough to sit in a rocking chair and physically break one of the armrests off. Nor had she felt the kind of murderous, hate-filled, _rage _that welled up in her chest like the steam in a tea kettle, hissing out between clenched fists and teeth.

The glass of sweet tea and her sketchbook sat untouched on the wooden floor beside her mutilated chair, both of which were _supposed _to be catalysts in her calming routine. Rachel had never before seen such a stark difference between _supposed to work _and actually _working. _

Lavinia had left her stewing in the washroom without another word. She'd just announced the identity of her dead father and walked the comment off like they'd been speaking about the weather. Rachel had sat there, gaping like a disrespectful fish for what seemed like weeks, but it had later turned out to be about half of an hour because when she'd mustered the brain power to make her way downstairs, Lavinia, her mother, and the Chases had gone. If it hadn't been for the _bomb _Lavinia had dropped, Rachel was certain she would have been quite a bit more miffed at Annabeth's absence. She hadn't even said hello, for god's sake!

Back against the rocking chair, she just breathes.

It cannot possibly be healthy for an eighteen year old girl to be getting so _violently _angry as often as Rachel Dare does. Then again, the treatment of human beings on her family's plantation and throughout the entire South isn't going anywhere any time soon, and the realization is enough to make her blood boil.

She picks at a finger, something her mother would probably hit her for (but since she isn't _around…_), and stares out across the fields like she usually ends up doing in her free time.

It's a naïve thought, but she tries for a moment to wonder what the world would be like without slavery. Just to be rid of the whole damn institution; free all the slaves and make their masters work for a change. She gazes out over the cotton fields; picturing black and white workers out there, getting _paid_ for a day's labor. How difficult could that be? Maybe any average Joe couldn't afford slaves, but he got his work done, his crops tended to. What use was slavery if work could be done by anyone?

Her thoughts are radical, that's for sure. Maybe she'd speak out on another topic, but even though she comes from wealth, she'd probably be endangering all her friends on the plantation by saying her ideas aloud.

She sighs. It's damn frustrating.

Her mind trails off uselessly but hopefully, which is probably why she doesn't _hear _or _see _anything; two senses she relies heavily on, but she does _feel _something all of two seconds before there is a man standing at the bottom of the steps, glaring up at her like she's just killed someone.

She blinks. Hard. "Nico? What- how in hell's blazes did you just-" she stutters, at a loss for words. He'd materialized there, hadn't he? Or had she just had some strange lapse in consciousness? "You were _not _there two seconds ago."

He glares some more.

"_Well?_" she huffs, now quite angry that he's not only scared her half to death and made her question her sanity, but is not saying anything _again. _"What do you want?"

"Cyrus."

"Cyrus _what? _Good lord, you need to figure out how to form complete sentences." She knocks over the glass of tea as she flies off of her broken chair and down the steps. "I know you can understand English, so don't give me any of that confused foreigner nonsense. Just _speak!_"

He doesn't.

Rachel's not religious like her parents, but at the moment, she prays to God for patience. Her dwindling resolve is not going to be enough to get through any extended amount of time with this man.

_Still_, she muses as she treks across the fields with Nico at her heels, _there'd been some kind of emotion in him_. Even though the situation had revolved around the death of an innocent man, she knows he's not some emotionless stick in the mud. She'd always prided herself on finding the best in people (her family not included), and maybe he just needed the right circumstances to elicit any kind of empathy or ardor. Hopefully it wouldn't be _dying men _the next time.

The floorboards of the sleeping quarters (she thinks of as a glorified toolshed) creak and groan as she steps over the threshold. "Cyrus?" she calls, wondering where in the world the old man could be. "Cy-y-yrus! You needed me for something?"

Now thoroughly annoyed, she turns on Nico, who's just leaning against the doorframe like an _idiot. _"Well? Where is he?"

Nico shrugs.

"You _better _not have taken me out here for nothing. If Cyrus needs me he can-"

_SNORT._

Rachel almost leaps out of her skin, grabbing on to Nico's forearm for support. Her heart takes off at a mile a minute and oh good lord do _not _let her die today. She digs her nails into Nico's arm, and from behind the pile of tools and scrap in the corner rises a hunched figure Rachel almost assumes to be some sort of crooked monster straight from the recesses of hell-

"There ya are, Miss Dare!"

She slumps over in relief. "_Cyrus!_ I thought you were some kind of demon, making noises like that. Were you asleep?"

"Yes'm, I'd been. Glad ya come down here nah, I'd be needin' at give ya this." He says, stretching hugely and snorting loudly again before hobbling over to her. "Miss Chase done gave it ta me. Said she couldn't find ya nowhere."

"Oh." she says simply, her heart still racing from the scare he'd given her. She'd probably been a bit too jumpy, but one can never be too cautious. Especially not since they'd found that bear in the outhouse a few weeks prior…

She lets go of Nico's arm (surprisingly warm for such a cold man) and takes the envelope from Cyrus's gnarled hand. "Did she say anything else?"

"Nah. Her pappy been hollerin' somethin' awful out there. Tryin' a get her movin'. She's havin' none of it, Miss Dare; you know how that girl be."

Rachel glances up from the envelope, trying not to smile. "Was he mad at her?"

Cyrus nods slowly. "Sho' enough."

What could Mr. Chase have been so angry about? Never, in all the years she'd known the family had she heard Mr. Chase speak louder than what amounted to a stage whisper. He was an eccentric man, but not a loud one. He'd never been one to loose his composure over anything. Had Annabeth done something wrong? It wasn't really like her to be the troublemaker. That was and had always been Rachel's job.

She rips the envelope open, sliding the gold-trimmed paper from its confines. She'd notice Annabeth's chicken scratch anywhere. Seeing as she wasn't much of a rebel in public, Rachel had realized she'd show her rebellion in other ways. She'd once stolen all of her father's new steel point pens from the lockbox in his office. Not much, but Rachel had laughed at the story. The bad handwriting was another example; it infuriated her parents. Rachel loved it.

_"Rachel,_

_Firstly, I hope you aren't angry with me for not delivering this to you in person. I thought Mr. Cyrus here would be a better messenger in my absence._

_Remember how you told me to find myself a man? You must be some kind of seer._

_Everyone seems to think a New York man is too northern for the likes of me._

_Everyone, that is, except for you and myself._

_Don't think I've forgotten about you, though. I'll find you a gentleman if it kills me._

_Maybe a nice man from New Hampshire or Massachusetts._

_Either way, I suppose I'll speak to you at the gala. Yes, I've been forced to go as well._

_Not with my new man, unfortunately. I'll give you details on him when we meet in person."_

She'd signed her name at the bottom, as frantic and scribbled as the rest of her handwriting. Annabeth had found a man for herself? The thought made Rachel smile, although she _had _to be a little jealous. She was stuck with Will Solace for a maliciously undetermined amount of time. Still, the prospect of a northern man… Rachel shook her head- _stop it_.

"Nah that I think 'bout it…" Cyrus began once she'd finished reading. "Miss Chase done said somethin' 'bout settin' fire to it."

"Setting-"

The realization hits her like a ton of bricks.

Annabeth is smart, that much she'd known for_ever_. She was resourceful, and could be downright conniving in a pinch. It really didn't take too much to outsmart the likes of southerners like their fathers, and this letter would have done the trick. Rachel's friend knew how to write a letter correctly- paragraphs, long sentences, the whole nine yards. This paper wasn't how distinguished women wrote letters.

She connected the letters along the side: _"F-R-E-E-D-M-E-N"_

Freedmen? A man in New York? Of course. It wasn't like Annabeth to write letters over something as trivial as a _man_ (although it was an exciting development). If she ever took the time to send something, it was about current events- _important _events.

"Nah thass' a happy look, Miss Dare."

Rachel glances up from the letter. She hadn't even noticed she'd been grinning. "I suppose Annabeth just knows how to make me smile." she admits, trying to shove her excitement back down. She catches Nico's eye, who's still standing in the doorway. Even his dour stare can't put a damper on her mood-

"Miss Dare?"

Rachel turns to the voice. A young girl stands at the bottom of the steps, glancing cautiously up at Nico, as if she doesn't want to come any closer to him. Rachel doesn't exactly blame her. "Yes? Is something wrong?"

"No, miss. I'm just delivering a message." _She must be one of the housemaids_, Rachel muses, _with a voice like that. _"There's a Mr. Solace at the porch for you."

Maybe Nico couldn't ruin her good mood. But William Solace sure as hell could.

* * *

She'd told Cyrus to burn Annabeth's letter.

The poor old man couldn't read, which, in retrospect, Rachel had assumed was why she'd given it to him instead of one of her parents.

Nico kept up with her as she made her way back across the fields. The sweltering Georgia heat did nothing for her already frizzy hair, and she probably looked like a feral tabby cat. At least, she _felt _like a feral tabby cat. Maybe she would always feel like this; angry and frustrated and irritated in one red-haired bundle. She hikes her dress around her ankles. Why was it that men could wear pants? Take their shirts off in the heat? Hell, Rachel would have run around in the nude if her mother wouldn't have beheaded her for it.

Rachel had opted to drag Nico along, hopefully to use him as an excuse to get the hell _away _from Will. She hadn't told him that, but he didn't really need to know he was being used. He just had to stand there and look intimidating, something he was _very _good at.

"I swear if he tries that hand-kissing nonsense again, I'll kick his ass back to whatever pigsty he was born in." she grumbles as they come up on the house. At her comment, she almost thinks she sees Nico smirk out of the corner of her vision. It's gone as soon as she can look.

"Looking radiant as ever, Miss Dare!"

She clenches her fists behind her back. "Mister Solace." she says, trying not to growl like an animal (maybe the tabby cat she'd associated herself with). "I'm very busy. Maybe today isn't the best time-"

"Nonsense!" he says and walks directly at her and if he so much as _touches_ her-

There it is. The hand-kissing.

Nico obviously picks up on her rage, because he clears his throat pointedly. She has to yank her hand away and force another painful smile before she can stay true to her threat and begin the ass-kicking. "You were here yesterday."

"Yes, and hopefully I'll be coming 'round every day. It's not every man that gets to take a woman such as yourself to a dance!"

_And if I had it my way, it would be _any _man but you. _She thinks. "I suppose not, but you'll have to come back another time. I have quite a few things to attend to."

"Are you sure I can't keep you around me any longer?" he asks like his presence _isn't _revolting and she'd actually _enjoy _spending time with him. Perish the thought. "I've got-"

"No."

He looks taken aback, and she gives herself a mental pat on the back. He gives up on his pursuit, thank the lord. "Oh. Tomorrow then!"

He doesn't give her time to respond, just tips his hat and walks off to his buggy. Unfortunately, this means he'll be back _again_, but at least she can spend the rest of her day with a little peace and quiet.

Once the buggy is gone, Nico turns to her. There's a strange light in his dark eyes. "You really don't like him, do you?"

She's so angry, she doesn't register right away that he's actually said a complete sentence. "_Loathe _is not a strong enough word. Wait- did you just ask a question?"

He nods.

"Oh, and now we're back to square one." she sighs, frowning up at him. "I knew you could speak. Now we have to work on the conversation part."

"I can speak." he mutters, but his face isn't in that awful grimace any longer. "I can converse."

"Well now! That's not much, but it's a start. You know, I have a feeling you'd be pretty pleasant conversation if you just completed your sentences."

Back to the frown.

She smiles at him. Together, they walk back to the slave's quarters. It wasn't much of a conversation, but what little she got out of him lightened her mood. It almost made her forget her burning hatred of Will Solace. _Almost. _Still, she assumed that in time, she'd have another friend, someone she could confide in, like Cyrus or Abilene. Nico might not be talkative now, but she'd get to him eventually.

When they arrive at the shack, Cyrus is sitting on the steps, and he begins to rise shakily when he notices her. "Miss Dare!"

"Don't get up, Cyrus, it's alright. What is it?"

"Juss' want ta tell ya that I done what ya asked."

Right, the letter. She smiles at the old man. "Thank you, Cyrus. I appreciate it."

"Hope Miss Chase had some good news ta give."

She can't help but grin. _If only he knew._

"_Very_ good news."

* * *

**A/N: **I wasn't too happy with this chapter. Oh well. Thanks for reading!


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